front of him and pulled himself together. “I believe we have time for audience questions.”
Several moments of general upheaval ensued before a woman near the back of the room stood, accepted a microphone, and addressed the panel. “This question is for Marcus.”
“No fucking duh,” Carah muttered, and patted his arm comfortingly.
To his surprise, though, the woman didn’t address the obvious dichotomy between his previous public persona and the version of him who’d spoken moments before.
No, what she asked was infinitely worse.
“My boyfriend and I have an ongoing argument,” she said, gesturing toward a guy in a Gates tee who sat slouched and smirking in the seat beside her. “He’s convinced you only dated that fan as a publicity thing, or as some kind of political statement. I told him you’re a great actor, but there’s no way you were faking that expression whenever you looked at her. So who’s right?”
Dimly, Marcus wondered what expression he wore whenever he looked at April. Thunderstruck, probably. Lovesick.
The moderator heaved a sigh and glared at the woman. “Please make sure all future questions involve the show, rather than matters of an entirely personal nature. Let’s go to the next—”
“No,” Marcus found himself saying. “No, it’s okay. I’ll answer.”
Before April, he wouldn’t have realized the real implications of this question, the stance the woman’s boyfriend was actually taking. But now he knew, and he wouldn’t let it go unchallenged.
April might not want him anymore, but he wasn’t going to stand by while that smirking asshole or anyone else dismissed their relationship as a PR stunt or political statement.
“My relationship with Ms. Whittier is real.” He spoke directly into the mic, each word deliberate and chilly. “She’s an incredibly intelligent and talented woman, as well as gorgeous.”
The boyfriend snorted at that, and Marcus stared at him. Kept staring, stony and expressionless, until that hateful little smile evaporated.
“I consider myself fortunate to have dated her, and I would be proud to have her by my side at any and all red carpets, if she were willing to accompany me.” One brow raised challengingly, he turned back to the woman. “Does that answer your question?”
“Um . . .” She dropped back into her seat with a distinct thump, eyes wide. “Yes. Thank you.”
It wasn’t enough to make up for how he’d hurt April, but at least he’d proven one thing.
Whatever else he was, he wasn’t her goddamn father.
Right now, for the first time in years, he was only himself. No more, and definitely no less. Whether that would be enough—for her, for Gates fans, for his parents—he couldn’t say.
But at long last, after almost four decades, it was enough for him.
TWO MINUTES BEFORE their session was due to begin, Summer Diaz rushed into the backstage area and offered April a quick, slightly sweaty hug.
“I’m so sorry,” she gasped. “The group panel ran long. There were a lot of audience questions. Awkward ones.”
“Oh?” April tucked her hair behind her ear, doing her best not to appear as starved for information as she actually was, especially if said information included Marcus. “What were people asking?”
One of the conference organizers was waving at them, trying to catch their attention. April deliberately shifted until Summer blocked any view of him.
The other woman was watching April carefully, her breathing slowly returning to normal. “Among other things, why Marcus suddenly sounded like a PhD candidate, instead of the most handsome village idiot on earth. Whether his relationship with you was real, or just a publicity stunt.”
April’s mouth was gaping. She knew it, but the air in the hotel suddenly seemed unusually thin, so much so that she needed to gulp for breath.
“What—” Another shallow breath. Another. “What did he say?”
“Quite a bit. Let me see.” Summer tilted her head. “The highlights: he’s shy and dyslexic and happy to explain more in an interview that should be posted either late tonight or tomorrow.”
Holy fuck. Holy fuck.
He’d done it. He’d disposed of his old persona in the most public way possible, short of interrupting a royal wedding to announce his dyslexia via interpretive dance before setting fire to a series of hair products.
Not that he would ever set fire to his hair products. He was very, very attached to them. Especially his soft-hold mousse, which smelled like rosemary and fluffy clouds and money.
“How did the audience react?” The central, terrifying question.
Summer lifted a shoulder. “They were sympathetic, albeit confused. I think the interview will help smooth over any ill feelings, once it’s posted.”
April gripped the back